


Mistletoe, My Dear Watson

by HidingintheInkwell



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, First Kiss, M/M, Mistletoe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-25 17:48:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17125946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HidingintheInkwell/pseuds/HidingintheInkwell
Summary: John comes home to find mistletoe in their doorway. Surely it's for some experiment on the properties of mistletoe berry poison. Right?





	Mistletoe, My Dear Watson

“Sherlock?” John called, coat hanging off one arm, laces undone on one boot, and eyes fixed on the sprig of green and white hanging from the head jamb of their flat. The snow that had made it to his hair was starting to melt, cold water running down the curve of his neck. “Sherlock!” he called again, managing to detangle himself from his coat sleeves without taking his eyes from the plant. There was a huff and a thump from the direction of the kitchen before a rather pissy looking Sherlock appeared in front of him, dressed in his familiar dark trousers and a surprisingly festive deep red shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. “Sherlock, what is this?” John asked, motioning to the cluster of greenery. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. “It’s mistletoe, John,” he replied, voice dripping in condescension that could rival what he regularly directed at Anderson. John sighed. “Yes, I am aware of that. But what is it doing in our doorway? Is this for a case? Death by mistletoe berries or something? Did the killer bake it into a pie for the victim?” Sherlock shifted from one foot to the other, and if John hadn’t known the man better he’d almost call it nervous. “Surely you’re familiar with the customs traditionally associated with this particular plant, John. Especially during this time of year.”

 

Now it was John’s turn to cock an eyebrow. “Yes… but you aren’t exactly someone who adheres to traditions so I can only assume that you have this hanging here as some sort of experiment. So what is it? Are you studying people’s reactions when they see it? Did you leave clumps in different locations so you can study concentration due to varying degrees of gravity? Sherlock I swear if you messed up the kettle again trying to boil these things…” John trailed off. A flush had worked its way across Sherlock’s cheeks and down his pale throat, disappearing into the open neck of his shirt, the flattering color now working against him and making the blush appear darker. Pale eyes were locked somewhere in the vicinity of John’s boots and his hands were buried in his pockets, shoulders hunched in on himself. John had never seen Sherlock look so nervous, a major feat considering all the situations the detective got them in on a regular basis. In fact, he didn’t just look nervous, he looked almost…  _ scared _ . Why would Sherlock be looking scared? John looked back up at the sprig, down to the dark head of his friend, and back up at the plant, wheels in his head spinning faster. Sherlock was actually recognizing a classic holiday tradition, looked  _ nervous  _ about John’s reaction to said classic holiday tradition. 

 

He shifted his eyes once more from the mistletoe to the detective who was still shifting his weight just slightly from one foot to the other, and something in his brain clicked. “Sherlock, look at me.” The detective froze, if possible looking even smaller than his hunched position made him appear. “Sherlock…” John kept his voice soft, warmth blooming in his chest as those pale eyes finally met his. Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but before he could even get the first syllable out John had the fingers of one hand slid into thick curls and was pressing his lips to the taller man’s, using his grip to tug him down just slightly before pulling back with a smile. He would remember the look of surprise on Sherlock’s face for the rest of his life; pale eyes wide, hair mussed just slightly, lips damp and cheeks painted a shade of pink that could almost be called a healthy color. His hands were out of his pockets and hovering at his sides like he couldn’t decide what to do with them. John took them in his own. “You know, you could have just told me outright.”

 

Sherlock smiled, one of his real smiles, not one of those he gave to someone to be socially appropriate, not even one of those he got when they had a particularly puzzling case. This one was soft and lit him like a Christmas tree. “I figured the symbolism would be… fitting,” he replied, voice low before diving down to land another soft kiss on John’s lips. “Though now that you mention it,” he said, pulling back all too soon, in John’s opinion, “I would love to study the varying properties of the mistletoe plant, learn to identify what affects the poison has on the body. You never know when a jilted lover may find it the perfect murder weapon.” John laughed, tugging the other man closer and silencing him with another kiss. As far as holiday traditions went, this was one he hoped Sherlock decided to keep around, even if he was no doubt going to be finding poisoned organs and body parts in the fridge for weeks to come. 

  
~END~


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